Not Yet

Jon eased out of her with a slow, **** glide, the slick heat of her still clinging to him as her body trembled in the final aftershocks.

Thanks to the power of his words, Jocelyn’s maidenhead remained impossibly intact, the power’s seal holding firm, her untouched state preserved even as her cunt dripped with his release, the evidence of their coupling streaking down her thighs in glistening trails.

No. The thought struck hard, leaving no room for softness. He had already crossed too many lines. Her affection clung to him now, and the path that once led toward the crown had been quietly redirected. Desire answered him before reason ever could.

Him saying it to seal it and make them married. One sentence, and the shape of her life would settle around him, fixed and unyielding. The aftertaste of guilt rose sharp at the back of his tongue, lingering long after the heat in his blood began to fade.

“Would it?” Jon asked. The question stayed low, controlled, each word released with care.

Jocelyn pushed herself upright, the movement uneven, silk catching around her ankles before she freed it. Her eyes stayed on him, intent and searching, as if the answer hovered just beyond his lips. “It would still draw judgment,” she said once she found her balance. “Your birth would be weighed against you. And against me.”

A brief nod was his only reply. He had learned that truth young, absorbed it through averted gazes and measured pauses. The North never truly forgot blood. It only pretended, when it suited, that it could.

“What matters,” Jocelyn said as she closed the distance between them, her hand settling against his chest, “is that you would be mine.” Her gaze did not waver. “We could be together. And if my mother or my aunts came calling, it would pass without comment. Not openly.”

He gave her nothing in return. Stillness held where a reaction might have been.

It would be noticed. That certainty came as easily as breath. And yet the idea lingered, troubling in how readily it offered itself. A few chosen words could quiet raised brows, turn scrutiny into acceptance. Spoken carefully, they would settle, reshaping what people believed they had seen.

Sandra came forward with a fresh gown folded over her arm, identical in cut and colour to the first. The fabric looked untouched, cool and crisp beneath her fingers. “Princess,” she said shortly as she passed it over. Her storm grey eyes slid to Jon and lingered a moment too long. “No one will come looking for us here.”

He acknowledged that with a slight dip of his head, still unsure where the exchange was meant to lead. A beat passed before he spoke. “Do you think,” he asked, measured, “you could help me get dressed?”

Jocelyn's fingers tumbled over the gown's laces, nails catching in the threads as she tugged them apart. Emerald wool parted with a hushed breath, sliding from her shoulders to expose skin glowing with recent heat, full breasts lifting in steady swells, nipples hardening under the glade's bite. She shoved the heap aside with her foot and stripped the shift overhead, linen dragging along her curves before crumpling to the leaves. Thighs shifted open with a subtle gloss; her body leaned in toward him.

As he shook out the fresh gown, Jon noticed the emerald wool falling in heavy folds, bodice rigid from whalebone stays stitched deep into the lining. Fabric rustled softly as it unfurled, hem grazing the damp earth while he gripped it steady.

She raised her arms, allowing him to slide the underlayer over her head—the linen shift dropping along her body in one fluid drop, sleeves hanging slack at her wrists until he cinched the cuffs with a sharp pull.

Lighter green fabric followed for the kirtle, shaped to her body with laces weaving across the back. He turned her around, cords slipping through eyelets under his fingers, tightening from bottom upward—each draw narrowing the cloth along her waist and ribs until it held firm yet allowed breath, the bodice lifting her chest gently, square cut exposing the line of her collarbone.

Embroidered edges marked the outer gown's heavier wool, sleeves widening at the cuffs. He settled it over her shoulders, matching the front edges before fastening the side hooks—clasps clicking into place sequentially, holding the divided skirt secure for unrestricted stride.

Leather encircled her waist for the belt, the buckle securing with a sharp snap, loose ends tugged straight to hang level. Palms smoothed the skirts downward, material settling into uniform pleats that reached her ankles, the hem skimming her boot tops. A single spin sent the layers swirling smoothly, free of catches or gathers, shaped for easy passage through narrow halls.

Jocelyn turned in place, gown layers rustling against each other. Her fingers ran along the belt's buckle, tweaking it one last time before lifting her gaze to his. She pushed onto her toes, palms pressing his shoulders for support, lips meeting his in a solid hold heat spreading from the contact, her tongue brushing his lower lip in a quick pass before retreating.

"Accompany me more often," she murmured, tone hushed, stare lingering on his a moment extra. Skirts swept leaves aside as she walked from the glade, Sandra matching her pace wordlessly.